


I Can Promise You'll See Me Again

by umqra1895



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Military, One Shot, POV First Person, Sad, The Umbrella Academy (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, Vietnam War, gay slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umqra1895/pseuds/umqra1895
Summary: Dave first met Klaus in 1963. Klaus first met Dave in 1968. This oneshot follows Dave's perspective along that timeline.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 45
Kudos: 359





	I Can Promise You'll See Me Again

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to stay consistent with the canonical timeline, but that provided to be impossible, so I had to fudge the final dates. I also ignored the possibility of an alternate timeline that was maybe implied at the end of Season 2 to keep things more straightforward. Thank you so much for reading!!

\--November 1963, Dallas--

Dear long-haired peacenik who came into the store today,

I don’t understand how you can be the way you are. How do you think you can get away with looking like that, with your long hair and colorful shirt and tight jeans? In Dallas of all places, too. I can’t stop thinking about it, because you were so out of place, and yet you had zero shame. You also acted like I was some long-lost friend of yours - kept staring at me. Guess I have one of those faces. I suppose I should have been more annoyed with you, but I couldn’t help feeling a little defensive after you left with your cans of Mamie Pink and Dad muttered about how fruity peaceniks were spreading like cockroaches. You weren’t a cockroach. Maybe you were confused, or not right in the head, and sure, maybe you were even a fruit. But you weren’t harmful. I don’t think you could hurt a fly. 

\--

I’m so sorry I punched you. And yet, I keep asking you in my head, over and over,  _ why didn’t you just walk away? If you had just left, Brian never would have pressured me, and I never would have hit you.  _

I know to you that’s a lousy excuse. But for me, there weren’t a lot of options. Brian has already told me in no uncertain terms that I need to man up if I’m going to live up to the Katz name. If I’d told Brian no, do you know how my parents would react? Brian tells Dad everything - and I can’t imagine letting Dad down by admitting I hadn’t been tough enough to tell off some queer stranger. 

That seems pretty selfish and cowardly, doesn’t it? I guess it is. I wish I could be braver. 

I was quiet the whole drive to the recruitment office, but Brian swore up a blue streak about how homos and queers were ruining this country, and how no nephew of his was going to end up a beatnik bum. As if he was afraid I’d grow a beard and sprout flowers in my hair right there in the car next to him. He sounded almost afraid, and I saw how his knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. He drove the pick-up truck as if there was a race to the recruitment office. 

It was even easier than I thought to enlist. A few papers, a quick physical, and just like that, I’m a military man now. It’s my lineage. It’s the right thing to do, defending my country. If it wasn’t for people like me, we’d fall to the Commies. People like you act so complacent and think they can do whatever they want, that they have a choice, but sometimes you just don’t. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do. Sometimes you have to do what you’re told, even if it makes you sick to your stomach. 

Maybe my uncle is right. Maybe you’re just a con artist who tries to poison the minds of innocent youth (I’d argue I’m not really a ‘youth’ if I’m old enough to enlist, but I guess that’s not the point) and get them to fall to the Red agenda, but I can’t shake the look you gave me. Not just that you recognized me, but you... _ saw  _ me. The real me. Even after I punched you, that look didn’t leave your face. I wish I could understand why.

___

I didn’t sleep last night. I felt compelled to tell you that I’d enlisted. Why? To rub it in your face and prove that I’m an actual man, not...whoever you mistook me for, maybe. 

I tried to brush it off - I had the day off, and was planning on heading out to see _The Yesterday Machine_ with Jim and Steve \- so rare I could convince them to go see a science fiction picture with time travel and all that, but when I told them this one was really about WWII, they agreed. 

The movie was boring, anyway, and afterwards when we were headed to get something to eat, I saw your face on a handout, stapled to a lamppost. I made some excuse and said I’d meet up with them later. 

I felt sick to my stomach when I saw where you lived. My uncle was right - you’re a con artist. How else could you have enough money to live in a place like that?

I should have just turned and left right there, but I still wanted to see you, if only to convince myself you were just a liar. 

You know so much about me, and maybe deep down, I wanted to believe you. But you lost me when you said I had other options than going to war. What other options? Staying in Dallas in shame, shaking paint cans while my friends go off and fight for our country and my family shuns me?

Let’s be realistic - this is my only chance to get out of Dallas. Do you think I have any hopes of going to college, or find a job that lets me save up and move wherever I want? Now that I’m enlisted, I’ll be able to travel, build my skills, serve with honor. Make a name for myself. Maybe when I come home with my own war stories I won’t feel like such an outsider here. I could have a good, honorable life, and you want to convince me to run away from it because I might die? Everyone knows that there’s a chance of dying when you go to war. It’s not right to run from it.

I learned your name, finally. Klaus. Brian would probably sneer at you having such a Kraut name, but I guess I was relieved it wasn’t Marigold or Skylark or something equally wild.

It’s not possible that you are who you say you are, that you know who I am and...when I die. I know people can use all kinds of tricks and manipulation to pretend to be psychic...but I don’t know how you had dog tags with my name on it. Is that why you targeted me in the first place? You found dog tags of a David Katz and then looked in the phone book until you found a match? But...why? That’s so much work for some nobody, and, well, no offense, but you don’t seem like the type to go to that much trouble. 

_ And  _ you gave me an exact date of my apparent demise. Why would you dangle a specific date like that over my head? Now that date is burned into my head - February 21, 1969. 

I’m so angry that I even bothered to find you. Now I’m just angry at you, and I really didn’t want to be. At least I was able to apologize for punching you. But I still want to ask you why, and how dare you, and what gives you the right to make me question what was a simple, straightforward path? 

When I got home I asked my dad if he knew where the A Shau Valley was in Vietnam. He said he’d never heard of it, and I couldn’t give him a good answer for why I wanted to know. I pulled out our global atlas and, I’ll admit, I didn’t even know where in Asia Vietnam was. I searched all over that long, skinny country and didn’t see anything by that name. Maybe you were just speaking gibberish. Probably. If I started believing all the nonsense you spouted at me today and the day before, I’d end up a complete basket case.

\--November 22rd, 1963, Dallas--

My God. He’s dead. The whole city is in a state of shock. Our president has been shot - and here in Dallas. Who did it? Do you know? If you knew, why didn’t you stop it? If you knew he would die, were all those other things true, too? 

\--November 1963, Dallas--

It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I’m on the bus to basic training. The timing worked out for saying my goodbyes, I guess. I’ve never seen Dad so proud of me. He almost got emotional when he led the whole table in raising me a glass, for carrying on a new generation of the Katz military service. 

Sometimes it seems like Dad’s entire personality is shaped by his time in WWII. Being an American Jew, with distant relatives over in Poland and Germany, fighting Nazis had extra weight to it. My grandfather’s portrait is on the buffet table, so he’s always watching over us during meals. 

So, even if you were right and I do end up dying over there, at least I’ll have made my family proud instead of being a disgrace. Part of me wishes you could see me now, see how I blend in with all the other guys on this bus. This is where I belong. I don’t know why I want to convince you so badly when I know I shouldn’t be thinking of you at all. 

\--February 1964, Fort Hood--

I can’t tell a soul about what happened last night - but for some reason, I wish I could tell you. The part of me that listens to Brian wants to think you’d be cackling and twirling an invisible moustache like a movie villain, crowing about how I’d finally succumbed to your evil lefty agenda to abandon my morals. 

But when I think about how you’d react if I told you, I don’t think that would be the case. I want to tell you how during our leave time, a few of us drove to Killeen for some drinks and dancing, and how Steve and I had a few too many and ended up in the alley talking for a long time. How our hands somehow ended up twined together, how we wobbled and laughed and called each other homo, and waited for the other to yank his hand away, but neither of us did. How easy it felt to lean in and kiss him. It felt  _ right,  _ like the first time I threw a perfect football spiral. I think you would have looked at me with those sad eyes and told me it was all okay. Or maybe that’s my own wishful thinking.

Some noise inside spooked us and we pulled back and didn’t look at each other for the rest of the night. We went back into the bar one at a time, slinking back onto the dance hall and started flirting aggressively with the first girls we could find. We’ve barely looked at each other since, and sat as far away from each other as possible on the ride back to base. We’ve agreed without saying anything that we have to chalk it up to drinking too much, a silly drunk mistake that we’ll never mention again.

\--July 1964, Fort Hood--

I always imagined after I finished basic and AIT, I’d be shipped straight off to some exotic country for service - but apparently, no deployments overseas for me just yet. Give it time, the higher-ups say. Word is the conflict in Vietnam is only escalating. 

\--September 1964, Fort Hood--

There’s a big group being sent out today - my number wasn’t called, but Steve’s was. After what happened in the Gulf of Tonkin, seems we’re going to be seeing more action. So, when is the call going to come for me? I have to get out of Texas. Sure, I’m part of the military, but domestic work isn’t what I’d expected. It’s definitely not what my family expected. I just feel like dead weight on the base these days, and I don’t think there’s anything I could say to Dad to convince him I’m not avoiding the war, that I’d go over for active combat in a second if they’d only let me. 

\--January 1965, Fort Hood--

I’m so antsy to get out of here. And terrified. Steve’s dead - got caught in some crossfire near the Laos-Vietnam border. My pal Dan lost both of his legs. And even the soldiers who come back in one piece seem broken. Over Christmas, I had a beer with Jim, who’d just gotten back into Dallas, and he said it’s nothing like he thought it would be. I asked for his war stories and he looked straight at me and shook his head. I asked about his victories and he said, “Surviving.” He didn’t want to talk about it. Jim, who used to tell me everything. He said, “The victory is just getting out alive, Dave.” 

His words haunt me, but his eyes haunt me more. I can’t help thinking of what you said to me almost a year ago, you strange, fringe hippie who practically begged me not to go. 

\--February 1965, Fort Hood--

It’s finally happening - I’m going to Vietnam. I can’t pretend I’m not scared. I also can’t pretend I don’t still think of you sometimes. 

But mostly, I feel more than ready to go over and serve. I’ve never stepped foot off American soil before. I’ll finally be able to prove myself, meet people outside of Dallas. I’m ready for the adventure. 

\--August 1966, Dallas--

I’ve been home for a couple months now. I’m back working at the hardware store for the time being. It’s hard for me to process those 11 months in Vietnam. Brian and Dad seem to respect my silence when the subject comes up. Mom’s just relieved I’m home in one piece. 

I thought coming back from service would make me feel like I belong, but I feel more like an alien than ever. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken up reading science fiction books again. I thought of you when I picked up a new book called  _ Dune.  _ I’ve never read anything like it. You were right. It’s my new favorite book. So that’s another thing you were right about.

It makes me think of all the other things you told me. Including that date that’s still in my future, the day I supposedly die. You must be wrong about that part, at least. I’m home in one piece from Vietnam, and the conflict really can’t go on that much longer. 

\--October 1966, Dallas--

It’s almost harder being home than it was over in Vietnam. At least over there, I knew my role.. Taking things day by day had a comfort and a rhythm to it. Not to say things weren’t horrific at times - they were. I saw things I wish I could erase from my brain, but I don’t have anyone to confide about it with here. When Dad or Brian try to bond with me about the war, nothing they say resonates. 

_ You have no fucking idea,  _ I want to shout at them.  _ This isn’t goddamn World War II.  _ That much should be obvious. People weren’t out protesting during World War II, as far as I know. 

I don’t know how I fit in here. 

\--March 1968, Vietnam--

I thought it would feel the same coming back for my second term, but so much has changed. Altogether, I’ve served almost two full years - that’s a lot more than most soldiers. They had us on 1-year rotations, but the word is they’ll be transitioning to 15 months if things don’t start improving. 

The draft brought in most of the soldiers serving alongside me now. I can’t believe how young most of them are - wild-eyed kids pulled straight out of college or high school, who never wanted to be here in the first place. 

I’m trying to keep a level head, take it day by day, keep the rest of my teams’ head above water. At least, that’s what I write back home. The truth is, almost two years in and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing. None of us do.

\-- April 1968, Vietnam --

You arrived last night. You.

Sometimes I imagined what it would be like if you showed up - with every batch of new arrivals, I couldn’t help looking to see if a long-haired, eccentric, far too pretty man had snuck his way in with them.

But you arrived out of nowhere in my tent in the middle of the night, hair cropped and skin bruised to high heaven. And you have no idea where you are or who I am. I stared right at you, and for a second I thought maybe you knew me - but as we moved out it became clear you had no idea what was going on. 

Today on the bus I introduced myself, tried to reassure you that you’d adjust with time. You looked relieved that someone bothered to talk to you, but there was no spark of recognition. Your soft voice and your dark-fringed eyes were just like they were in Dad's hardware store five years ago. 

\---

It would be obvious to anyone who bothered to pay attention that you’ve had zero basic training. I teach you how to hold and load a gun properly. I also teach you which hand to salute with. You’ve taken to following me around like a shadow, mostly because I don’t give you the brush-off like the other soldiers do. 

I hear some of them mutter “queer” or worse under their breath about you, but I’ve been around long enough that if I cast them a look they usually shut up. You just can’t seem to figure out how to “man up” when need be. Your voice is too soft, your hand gestures are too colorful, your gazes at the other men are too frank. It doesn’t help that you’re so...pretty. You’re going to get yourself beaten up, and I can’t always be around to stop that from happening.

I noticed more of your bruises in the showers today. I want to ask you what happened, but I don’t think you’d tell the truth. You’ve already told me some impossible, half-cooked story about how you ended up in our platoon. Sorry, Klaus, but you can’t just “catch a lift” on a passing helicopter and get dropped off at whatever platoon has an opening. 

Still, there are always vacancies, and the commanders are all too happy to have them filled, even if it’s by someone who doesn’t know the right end of a gun.

\--May 1968, Vietnam--

Here’s what I know about you so far.

You’re a horrible cheater at poker. 

You’re not afraid of getting hurt. Stringbean though you are, you don’t hesitate to follow me into the front lines. You don’t seem to care about what might happen if you die. That worries me sometimes, if I’m honest. I don’t want you doing something reckless. I’ve seen enough death out here already.

You drink too much, and hell, don't we all out here. But the way you snatch up any pills and booze you can get your hands on makes me think you might have a bigger problem than the typical soldier.

You skirt the questions about the tattoos on your hands by making little quips that I know aren't the full truth. Ditto with the umbrella tattoo on your forearm.

You talk to yourself, so much so I don’t know if you’re all right in the head. 

You can make almost any situation fun. I know some soldiers in the party get tired of your endless jokes and quips, but they just haven’t been here long enough to see how valuable they are. We need all the fun we can get out here, even if it’s absurdly crass at times. 

You have a nice laugh and an even nicer smile. I see you smile the most when you’re happy on someone else’s behalf. I don’t think you think very highly of yourself. 

I catch myself staring at your eyes a bit too long. Sometimes the light filters through the trees and they light them up in this really neat way. 

You pretend to be a bigger asshole than you actually are. I saw you carry that injured bird inside your vest while we were making the long march to Khe Sanh. And the first thing you said when Rogerson got blasted by that land mine was, “Who’s going to tell his family?”

\--June 1968, Vietnam--

Sometimes I worry you won’t make it out here - the long marches, the rain, the explosions, the fear of stepping on a land mine at any moment. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy. Even me, who has been waiting to serve his whole life. 

I’ve long learned the pattern of war out here. You’re never at one base for long, but when you are, there’s a mixture of boredom and tension that’s maddening. Our platoon all know each other so well, but for whatever reason I keep coming back to you - we ask each other dumb questions to pass the time. And for whatever reason I can't get enough of them. What's your favorite food? What's your favorite movie? Album? Movie actor? I've never heard of any of the things you answer with. You jokingly tell me it's because you're from the future. 

Once while we’re moving on foot, I look you square in the eye and ask you what the future is like. I expect you to give me some shit about flying cars, but you don't. 

"The war ends, eventually. I don't want to be a downer, Dave, but this, all this -" You wave your cigarette around at the rice fields and palm trees and distant plumes of smoke, at the rest of our platoon marching endlessly onward. "-It's pointless." 

"It's not our business to say that," I pipe up automatically. 

You just shake your head. "I don't know what to tell you about the future. Some things get better. Some things get worse. Some things stay the same." 

It's annoyingly vague, but I believe you. Of course I do. Here you are. 

To the rest of the platoon, I'm Katz and you're Hargreeves. But to each other, it's always Dave and Klaus. I can't imagine calling you anything but Klaus, and I don't think you'd let me. 

__

When we get word of a sneak attack, we head for the small bunker our platoon commandeered a few weeks ago to take cover against the onslaught. It’s the dead of night, and we blindly make our way through the brush, trying not to trip and fall or make too much noise. We cram in there, and as usual, you’re right next to me. As we swing the door shut, I can feel you trembling next to me. I’ve never seen you this scared before.

You’re shaking so violently that I can hear your helmet rattle against the wall. I reach my arm around your shoulders in the dark, trying to still them. “Hey, there, soldier. Deep breaths, okay?” I whisper.

You grab my hand, clench it tightly, and I hear you trying to get your breath under control. I pull you closer, and that seems to help. 

“Claustrophobic?” I whisper. 

“Y-yeah,” you say back. As the minutes drag, I can feel the tension ease slightly. None of us are exactly relaxed, but at least you’re not violently trembling anymore. You stay where you are, though, and I don’t move either. In the dark like this, with you pressed against my chest, I focus on your breath, which is deliberate and slow, still shaky at times. I focus on the warmth of you against me, of the smell of the back of your neck. It’s...intimate. I try to remember the last time I was this close to another human body for this long. I honestly don’t know, and I can’t bring myself to care, because it’s such a distraction from the gunfire and shouts on the other side of the bunker door. 

“Thanks,” you whisper when we finally get the all clear and pile out of the bunker. 

“Hey, what are friends for?” I ask, clapping you lightly on the back.

\--

The rain is endless. We're only dry in our tents at night, but only barely. It's a struggle to keep our ammunition dry, let alone our boots and socks. 

It's you and I alone in the tent tonight, trying to dry off. Most of the others are crowded into the larger tent to play some poker - rumor is that Tennessee has his absurdly big collection of nude pictures up for winnings tonight, and if that didn't get everyone hollering. 

I tell you I might sit this game out - I'm not in the mood for a rowdy night with the boys, ogling bare breasts of some girls I've never met and never will. 

You egg me on, tell me I've earned a break, that all fun and no play make Dave a dull boy, that with all this time in the jungle I must be dying for whatever flesh I can get a peek at. 

It's like you're taunting me, baiting me. And it works, I guess, because I snap at you and ask why you aren't in the tent yourself if you're so horny, instead of hanging around with me all the time. 

I regret how angry I sound almost immediately, and you get that same small, wounded look about you, like you did all those years ago when I punched you. 

I want to touch you. Softly. Tuck you into my vest like you did that bird you scooped up. Keep you close and safe. 

I know I shouldn't. So I say, "You're not very good at pretending, you know. Keep up the fruity stuff and you won't have to wait for the Viet Cong to kill you." 

Any typical man would have punched me in the nose for even implying he was a fruit, but you only throw your hands up in exasperation. "I KNOW I'm not good at it, Christ! It's exhausting, trying so hard. I'm sorry, Dave, I am. Listen, if you don't want to be around me, no offense taken. I know I'm one of those 'dangerous homosexuals' your parents warned you about-"

You're speaking far too loud, gesticulating with your hands, and I try to shush you, but you're on a roll now. 

"Well, pansexual, really but -" 

"What-sexual? You're into...cookware?" 

You stop mid-rant and turn to grin at me, and just like that, you're giggling uncontrollably. "Oh - Dave, Dave, Dave -" 

I can't help it. I grin back, and I only sober up when I say, "I don't get you, Klaus. But I've got no right to judge you, and I don't want to see you walk into a bunch of hurt you can avoid. That's all." 

You touch my arm, grazing your hand up to my bicep. "You're just about the kindest guy I've ever known," you say, and that sentence is burned into me. 

I step in closer. I can't help it. I imagine what it might be like to touch your cheek, to brush my finger along your lower lip, right where soft skin meets stubble. 

Then Mont comes in looking for his extra flask of shitty whiskey and I jump away from you, just like I did with Steve in that alleyway. 

\--July 1968, Vietnam--

I dreamed about you last night. The kind of dream that made me sit up in a sweat, feeling at once claustrophobic and all alone, even though you’re asleep a few feet away from me. You and 6 other soldiers. 

I fall back onto my cot, closing my eyes and trying to piece the dream fragments back together. Like all dreams, it’s impossible to put it into a cohesive narrative. 

At first, it was the you I met in 1963, with your long hair and silk shirts, clear, sad eyes. You smelled like cigarettes and flowers, and you were holding my dog tags. 

You and I here in Vietnam, waist deep in a river. The current is strong, and we hold on to each other. My hands slide over your hips, under your shirt, along your skin. You sigh against my ear in a way that makes me shiver. I turn toward you, our lips brush, and then we’re kissing and we give in to the current. 

Then we’re back in my bedroom in Dallas, the house empty and dark. We’re still in our fatigues - for a while, anyway. I think we talk to each other, but I don’t remember what we say. Then we must be naked, because I remember your skin against mine, feeling your breath on my chest, the burn of your stubble against my lips. In the dream, it’s like we’ve done this a million times, like you’ve always been with me.

I wake aching. I wake terrified. It’s not the first time I’ve had these kinds of perverted thoughts. The only time I ever acted on them was with Steve, but we were both drunk. This time, I can’t shake it off so easily, because here I am, awake and sober, and looking at you asleep one cot over, I feel that same tugging ache in my heart.

A feeling of dread washes over me as I wonder if no matter how hard I try, no matter how far I run from it - and I did run halfway across the war, I won’t be able to change who I am and what I feel.

What scares me more is that I don’t  _ want  _ these feelings for you to go away. 

\--

You can tell something’s off about me. I’ve been avoiding you, because every time I look at you I feel like I have a big spotlight on me, showing everyone exactly how I’m looking at you, that they can hear all my thoughts about you broadcasted loud and clear. 

It’s easy to avoid you these days, while we’re on the move, but as soon as we set up a base camp, you get me alone and confront me about it. 

“Hey, Dave, you seem really on edge. Did I do something to piss you off? Trust me, I know I can wear people down. Just tell me and I’ll change,” you all but beg me. 

You look like a dejected puppy, which only makes me angry. “Of course I’m fucking on edge.” Even out here, it’s rare I swear. “We all are. Not everything is about you, Klaus.”

“I know it’s not,” you say, and there’s that dejected tone in your voice, like you’re used to be swept aside. 

“If we’re going to survive this thing, we have to keep our heads down, man up, be alert -” I am vomiting words now, echoes of Brian. “I can’t - I can’t keep on like this, I don’t get why I can’t be-”

I punch a nearby tree, and instantly regret it. You reach out to touch my arm. “Hey, hey - it’s okay, Dave.” Your voice is so calm and quiet. Ever the peacemaker. “You can’t be what?” you prompt. 

I feel like I’m going to throw up when I finally spit out, “I think I might be gay.” 

You look a bit amazed for a second, but you pull me into a hug and you don’t say anything for a while, letting me break down against your shoulder. You tell me it’s okay, and I believe you, because it feels like a weight I’ve been carrying for years is lifted. 

It’s so easy to wrap my arms around your skinny waist, and you don’t seem to mind that I’m clutching you so tightly. “You can’t tell  _ anyone, _ ” I say fiercely as I pull away and rub the tears off my face. 

You just laugh. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell that I’m a time traveling queer who can talk to ghosts,” you retort. 

Fair enough. We can keep each others’ secrets.

\--September 1968, Vietnam--

I was so worried that after my admission, you’d treat me differently. Be more handsy, try something with me. But then I realize with shame that just because I can’t stop thinking about you doesn’t mean you feel the same way about me. 

Every time I get a feeling like you might feel something more than friendship for me, I remind myself that you flirt with anything that breathes. And Vietnam keeps reminding me that I need to keep my wits about me, because men from our platoon are dropping like flies. 

\--November 1968, Saigon--

Last time I was in Saigon in ‘64, it was chaos, everyone vying for political control. Now, the war and the presence of American soldiers is its new normal. There are more people speaking English than French, more bars catering to American tastes with rock and roll and soul music. 

Most of the soldiers run straight to the brothels and bars, diving into the arms of the first pretty Vietnamese girl who bats her eyes at them. 

You and I and a few of the others set to eating and drinking our way through the city. I know enough Vietnamese phrases to order drinks and say “thank you,” although the way the locals grin at me makes me think my pronunciation is still pretty terrible. 

You still fall into fits of laughter at the fact that the local currency is called “dong”, and as much as I tease you about being a filthy-minded, immature ass, I can’t help but love seeing you more at ease.

I don’t know what time of night it is when the two of us end up at some bar deep in the French Quarter, long after the others have wandered off. All I know is that the whiskey keeps coming and we keep dancing, somehow gravitating closer and closer. 

Under the bar lights you are breathtaking. We end up close against all my intentions, and I know there are other people in the bar, dancing, possibly noticing how close we are, but I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t take my eyes off. 

When the music slows, I buy us another round of shit whiskey and we wander back to a more secluded corner of the bar. It’s easier to talk here.

“I missed dancing,” you said. 

“You’re good at it,” I grin, and you look at the ground bashfully, laughing to yourself.

“I’m not good at anything, Dave, be honest, now. You’re far, far too nice,” you slur. 

“Hey, stop that.” Somehow my hand slides against your cheek, and you melt into my touch. “I think you’re pretty damn amazing.”

When we kiss, everything else fades away. And this time, I don’t run away.

\---

We don’t leave the hotel bed all day. It’s so hot in Saigon, and we have one rattling fan in our room. It’s not enough to keep our skin from being sheened with sweat and our hair to curl in the humidity, but neither of us care. You fit perfectly against me, and even though I tell you I have no idea what I’m doing (and it’s true), everything feels natural, instinctual, and you are wonderfully helpful at expressing exactly what you like. You are also brimming with creative suggestions when we catch our breath and are ready for another round. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like my heart could swell out of my chest like it does when you say my name, just like that. 

When we’re too tired to move, we talk about what we’d do after the war. You say you’d follow me wherever I end up, that there’s nothing waiting for you back in the States. I tell you all about Dallas - Dad’s hardware store, my family, my lineage. You’ve heard some of it already, but it’s the first time I’ve admitted to anyone out loud that I might not want to settle in Dallas when I get back - if I get back. 

At the if, you get furious at me. Fury for you is launching a pillow at my head, but still. You refuse to admit that death is a real possibility here, even though we’ve both seen people die on all sides too often and in too much detail. 

There have been so many times when I wanted to bring up that I’ve met you before, to see if you remember. I never do, because some part of me knows that “you” doesn’t exist yet. I’m so grateful that I have those memories of you, a version of you that survives all of this. Whatever ends up happening to me, I have good reason to believe you’ll make it through this. 

I can’t tell you that you’ll make it out of here, so instead I tell you that nothing is certain, and that I’ve made peace with that fact. But I admit that I can’t help wondering what will be waiting for me when I go back to the US if I don’t feel like Dallas is a home for me anymore.

****  
  


You suggest San Francisco. You tell me it’s not just flower children, but homosexuals living in relative peace, whole neighborhoods of them. The idea is overwhelming, but before we fall asleep I can’t help imagining what knowing you in a civilian setting would be like, somewhere where we could take our time, go on long drives in the country, eat at restaurants, see movies, fall asleep and wake up in the same bed together. I want it so badly I almost can’t fall asleep. 

\---

You’re utterly beautiful in the morning light. Beautiful and sluggish and protesting as I stir and pull the sheets back to admire your naked body with my fingertips and my mouth. Maybe I ought to be more shy, more uneasy about worshipping a male body like I do, but it feels like the only natural thing to do. 

I love the small of your back. I love your long calves and your wrists and the nape of your neck. I murmur all of this to you as I admire each part, and you make soft noises and, for once, seem to be at a loss for words. You roll over and fling your hands over your eyes to block out the sunlight streaming in, and I realize I’d do just about anything you’d ask of me.

Eventually I dress and I bring us back steaming bowls of pho ga. We eat it on the little balcony overlooking the chaos of bikes and mopeds and carts darting along the streets underneath the tangles of electrical wires. Our fingers twine. Your head rests against my shoulder. Your warm breath tickles my ear as you coax me back inside with promises that make me stumble back to the bed. I'm insatiable. We both are. 

Tell me how to time travel, Klaus. Show me so that we can rewind and relive this night and morning over and over and over again. 

\---

Our leave in Saigon is over too soon, and it is torture to act like we did before as we head back up north. All I want to do is touch you, and it takes literal explosions to tear my eyes off you. There are enough (too many) explosions and gunshots and ambushes, though, and so we fall back into our old routine, tension returning to our shoulders like a heavy coat as we get closer to Hue. 

\--December 1968--

Horrible weather has delayed us on our journey. We hunker down, set up tents at the base, the usual drill. I haven’t gotten to spend any time alone with you since Saigon. There’s too much risk of being caught, and we’ve had some close calls with the VC that’s left the entire platoon rattled. 

Our fingers brush as I pass you some snacks, and all it takes is one look up at your eyes to communicate,  _ Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere. Alone.  _

I say I have to piss and leave, and you follow after, following me into the downpour until we find a dense enough canopy of trees to keep us slightly more dry.

I kiss you and we cling to each other in the darkness. It’s risky, I know it is. But even if I step backwards and find a land mine and end up sent home in pieces because I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you, I wouldn’t regret a thing. 

“You have to promise me you won’t leave when this is all over,” you say quietly. 

“Hey -” I brush your face. “I’m with you to the end, Klaus. Promise. I’ll always be with you.”

“Sure, you say that now, but you’ll get tired of me. Everyone always does.” 

“I won’t. If we get annoyed at each other, we’ll work it out. That’s what people do.” It’s so dark out I can’t even see your face or your expression. I trace your features with my hand, and you sway forward, leaning into my touch like an eager cat. 

I haven’t forgotten what you said, about when and where I die. And I know where we’re headed. A Shau Valley. When I saw it on the tactics map, I felt a cold stillness in my chest. 

_ You never come off that hill, Dave, _ you told me all those years ago. 

I don’t know if I believe in fate or destiny. Maybe I won’t die. Maybe a shot will miss. But death dangles over us all out here, and now that you’re deep in this shit with me, you know it too. We can make promises to each other, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be alive to carry out those promises, no matter how much I may want to. 

I tell you that I love you. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said, and when you say it back, I feel the words reverberate through me. 

We’re soaked by the time we get back to the tent and have to make up a story about me losing my lucky lighter out there in the dark. 




The weather clears at last, and we continue north. You and I find moments of monotony where we can shoot the shit like we did months ago, back when we were strangers.

You ask me to tell you a secret. I tell you about my obsession with science fiction, how I hide my love of it from my friends and family, but that I’ve always felt like an outsider with them in some way. 

You affectionately call me a nerd. I demand a secret from you. 

You tell me that you can talk to the dead. I smirk and say that must suck out here, there must be ghosts left and right, from all sides of the war.

You don’t smile. “There are,” you tell me. You tell me that you can only see and hear them when you’re sober, and that it’s too much to bear. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. All those voices, all of them  _ angry  _ at you and...demanding things. It’s the worst superpower ever.” 

I know it’s absurd, that you would be able to speak to the dead. But it’s also absurd that you can time travel, and yet I believe you. So I keep believing.

“Sounds hard,” I say. We slow down, our boots swishing through the long grass. “But, Klaus, how long are you going to keep avoiding it? If you keep up with the amount of drugs and drinking, you’ll die.”

You only shrug, shifting your gun to the other shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I don’t have much of a temper, but seeing you willing to toss your life away like it’s nothing sets something off in me. “Don’t say that, Klaus. Not to me. You’re worth so much more than a maybe, all right?”

You’re quiet, but I think at least some of the impact got through to you. I sigh and change the subject. “So, what happens after we die?” I ask. 

Turns out you really aren’t sure - seems that some people move on to an afterlife, and others choose to hang around. It seems the ones who stick around have a lot of issues, more often than not. You seem amazed and a little suspicious that I’m taking your claim of necromancy seriously. I wonder how alone you must have felt through your life, having to hold on to such a secret. 

I want to know everything about your life - there’s so much you haven’t told me. I want to believe we’ll have plenty of time to learn every detail and memory of each other. I want to believe we’ll make it out of here together, start some new life back in the US. It’s a nice idea. But in the end, all we have is the here and now, and I make sure to savor every second with you.

\--Feb 28, 1969, A Shau Valley, Vietnam--

So you were right after all. I don’t make it off this hill. 

My vision's dimming around the edges, but your face is in the center, and I want to tell you not to worry, that you'll see me again. I want to tell you to go easy on the booze and the drugs so that we can see each other soon. I want to tell you to be patient with younger me, that young me is confused and dumb and doesn’t know a beautiful thing when he sees it. I want to thank you for what you've given me. I want to say so many things to you, Klaus, but I can't get a word out. I know you'll see me again, and I can die happy knowing that.

I’m with you, Klaus. I promise.


End file.
